written on his hands
by shikiku
Summary: She's staring me down with those electric eyes. — Neku, Shiki.


**notes**: Neku/Shiki because these two have been on my mind for the longest time. Mostly cheeky little Neku, but still. I just wanted to write something small so I could keep them in character for at least a little while. I know a kiss is a bit much, but I tried my best. I own nothing.

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**written on his hands**

"Look, I don't understand why _I_ have to be here." He huffs his words out from the corner of his mouth, crossing his arms, shutting his eyes – he's bluffing, he knows damn well _why_ he has to be here, but the irritation still remains. "You can try on clothes by yourself. You're not disabled."

There's shuffling on the other side of the wooden door – he tries not to imagine what's going on back there, like what her bra looks like under her clothes, or how perfectly sloped her hips are under her panties, or the way her auburn hair'll tumble down her back when she peels off her top, or – they have a mission to attend to, _damn it_, get the hell out of there. He wonders if she'll ever understand just how tiring dealing with her is. Her, her sissy girly habits and feminine wiles. He swears he'll never fall prey to the puppy-dog eyes ever again – or set foot in a boutique that's _clearly_ made for females, the god damn liar.

"Neku, I never asked you to put my clothes on for me," Shiki replies, her tone exasperated, as if dealing with _him_ is just as painful to her as dealing with her is to him. He's not surprised – they've never gotten along. Well, he figures he only has himself to blame, but that's if he brings himself to care. Apparently he still has shits to give. Crap. "I just want your opinion on something."

"What? Whether or not that outfit makes you look fat or something?"

"_Neku_!"

He snorts. "Sarcasm, Shiki. It's a real thing. I didn't make it up."

It's at this point that she flings the wooden door open, and charges toward him, Mr. Mew – who is she kidding, that thing's a _pig _– hitching a ride on her shoulder. Neku sees her coming, but doesn't move – he shouldn't have to, he knows she won't touch him. She wouldn't _dare_ touch him, not if she wants to survive, be it in the game, or reality waiting to kick them both in the asses when they wake from this _nightmare_. She stops right in front of him, right in his face, her auburn eyes – not hers, he reminds himself, her best friend's – burning and spitting fire.

_What's got her so worked up? _

_Hell, the better question would be,_ _why do I give a damn? _

Oh. Oh, that's right. Because in this world, your partner's the only one that can keep you alive, and if she's pissed at you she might not think twice about leaving you hanging out to dry with some Noise, or that skater punk with the bad attitude. The wanna-be gangster has to have a few screws loose or something. That, or Neku's losing his mind – he doesn't doubt it, spending almost an entire week in this hellhole's reason enough for insanity. He's surrounded by idiots. Day in, and day out.

"Hey, Neku, are you even listening to me?" she demands, snapping him out of his reverie. She's so close now, he can smell her strawberry lip gloss, see each individual crevice in her cinnamon eyes – the thought of kissing her crosses his mind, _wait, what?_ "_Neku Sakuraba_."

And it's like he doesn't have control over himself – if he ever had any to start with, he's starting to wonder – he's rushing forward, she's pulling backwards, his hands are on her elbows, holding her still, or _trying_ to hold her still, and just when he thinks things can't possibly get any worse than this – she's kissing him. Or he's kissing her – he's not sure, he doesn't care, honestly, because there's nothing crossing his mind right now, not even disgust, confusion, irritation, nothing. _Nah-dah_.

She jerks backwards, putting a hand on his shoulder as if to ward him off, raising her fingers to her lips. He watches with his blue eyes, curious – _oh shit, great, my fault_ – before raising his fingertips to one of his spikes and threading his fingers across the bundle of chestnut hair, turning his face away. Her hand doesn't leave his shoulder – she doesn't stop staring at him either. He doesn't want to admit that he feels uncomfortable under her auburn eyes, under the palm of her hand.

In typical _Neku Sakuraba_ fashion, he asks, "What're you looking at?"

"Oh!" She pulls her hand back sharply, as if the feel of him's poison or toxic to her. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. Her fingertips don't fall from her mouth. "Neku, I didn't mean to, um, well, you know…"

Neku turns his head, facing her. "If you've got something to say, spit it out."

"I didn't mean to," she says, weaving her fingers together, hanging her head, eyes downcast. He holds his silence at this point, watching silently, playing with his spikes. She raises her face to meet his, "I really am sorry, Neku."

He smirks. "For what?"

"Please don't."

"It's the least you can do, you know," he remarks, turning toward the boutique door, and walking toward it. To each their own, he thinks. Though, in all honesty, he's as embarrassed as she is. Maybe more. Shiki takes a few steps after him, confused. "I'm leaving. I won't go far."

She blinks, as if she's not certain what he means, before jolting back to herself and hopping after him. "Wait, Neku, I'm coming!"

"Not like that you're not."

She stops, tilts her head – he gestures with a hand, a stiff, slightly irritated hand, but she looks down, takes a long, hard look at herself, and when she notices Neku staring – just to gauge her reaction, obviously, not to strip her completely naked with his eyes, _god_ – she squeals, wraps her arms around herself, and scurries back into the changing room, leaving the orange-haired boy to stop and stare.

He pats a hand to his hip, and sighs, mostly to himself, but the sales clerk at the counter nods to Neku. "She's quite a handful, isn't she?"

Neku huffs, crossing his arms, snorting, "You're telling me."

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**end.**


End file.
